


The Steady Progression of Impossible Things

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (for the first half), Asexual Aziraphale, Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Epilogue, Fatherhood, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Pining Crowley, our ineffable husbands adopt ALL the children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Following the Armageddon that never was, Crowley and Aziraphale get to live their life together. What exactly that means is something they're still figuring out.





	The Steady Progression of Impossible Things

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Good Omens fandom! I'm very excited to be diving into this community. I read the book years ago, adored it, but really got bit by the air conditioning bug after watching the show. So here, take some fic as an arrival gift.
> 
> UPDATE 9/7/2019: There is now a [Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8611519/21985628) courtesy of Ayreonaut!

**1.**

Astoundingly, it was Crowley who suggested a post-Armageddon get together, slipping the words more into his wine glass than the air. The “It’s” of “It’s whatever” had a slur the likes of which only a snake could produce and Aziraphale knew not by instinct, but 6,000 years of practice that if he asked Crowley to repeat himself or sober up a bit then the offer would be lost, retracted just as quickly as it appeared.

So instead he clapped his hands loud enough to startle any worms in his books and said, “What a splendid idea! How about Saturday? I have this wonderful recipe for macadamia nut cookies I’ve been meaning to try...”

And Crowley groaned, the sound trying to cover the way his shoulders sagged in relief, the expectation now that he’ll be around four more days, and though he didn't quite manage the deception Aziraphale was inclined to let it pass all the same. Because isn’t that what they were? A collection of the unacknowledged?

Aziraphale topped off his demon’s drink and slipped him a smile. They let that pass by too.

* * *

 

**2.**

The party—or _soirée_ as Aziraphale insisted on calling it—took place at dusk in the small back garden of the Young household. If pressured, Mr. Young would not have been able to explain why he’d agreed to a party nearly a week after his son’s birthday, let alone why the guest list included their strange new neighbors and the two men Adam had apparently befriended at the military base. Every time he began to question why his boy was now buddy-buddy with a bunch of odd grownups his mind would calmly slip away from the problem like, as Crowley would say, water over a duck.

There also seemed to be an abundance of food that had not been cooked in Mrs. Young’s kitchen, no mosquitos to speak of, and the light continued to hover perfectly between day and night no matter how many hours passed—and if all of this amounted to one miracle too many… well. It wasn’t as if there was anyone above or below inclined to look into it right now.

Mrs. Young watched a heavy-set man whose name she didn’t know very nearly break his teeth on a cookie. He spit the remains onto her cheap tablecloth and bellowed for tea with condensed milk and nine sugars. Stepping aside in his agitation, he revealed a steaming cup beside the cucumber sandwiches, waiting as if it had always been there.

Mrs. Young blinked. “What are we celebrating again?” No one answered her, but Adam was beaming at something Dog had done and those cucumber sandwiches looked divine, so she supposed it was all alright.

“Dreadful business,” Aziraphale said a few paces over, shaking his head with such solemnity that Newt had to quickly turn his laugh into a cough. “Are you _sure_ paperwork wasn’t one of your lot’s inventions?”

“Don’t even try it, angel. You know damn well paperwork existed long before the Fall,” Crowley was leaning against Aziraphale, his back to the angel’s side in a demonstration of impossible weight distribution and physics. He’d miracle up a bottle of bubbles at some point and was sending them off towards the village. They’d remain perfectly spherical and iridescent until Crowley grew bored of them. “That was all heaven’s doing. You’re not gonna foster that off on us.” A bubble briefly landed on Aziraphale’s nose. “Just imagine how much they’re buried under right now. Canceling the end of the world!” Crowley’s voice was positively gleeful. Aziraphale shivered.

“Well, there _is_ a little paperwork I’m hoping you’ll help us with…”

Anathema had always been able to command a room of humans with her voice, but something about her tone just then grabbed hold of the supernatural as well. They weren’t religious per-se, she said. Obviously things were a bit complicated, she said. Still, she said, there was an allure to _some_ traditions and certainly you’re a step up from a priest.

So it was that during an elongated dusk while the witchfinder dozed and the antichrist began a sword fight with his friends, Anathema linked her fingers through Newt’s and asked the angel of the Eastern gate to marry them.

Crowley was still leaning against Aziraphale’s side and as such was slammed with the wave of pure love that rushed through him at the request. It was quite the physical thing, singing along the neurons of his fleshy body and terrifying certain parts of his soul. The rest of him experienced what one might have termed yearning.

Crowley’s expression didn’t change, but all his bubbles popped at once.

“Would _I_ —? Oh yes, oh _yes_ of course I’d be delighted—!”

Aziraphale was vibrating, the whole of his being shining like concentrated starlight stuffed into a mere mortal container, now beginning to leak. Anathema had to shield her eyes against his aura while Newt blushed to the roots of his hair, stammering thanks that were still more articulate than whatever Aziraphale was blubbering about.

“Easy there, angel. You’re scaring the kids.”

The three of them had to band together to explain that Anathema hadn’t meant _now_ , the wedding wouldn’t be for months yet, Aziraphale, and with friendly arguing and echoes of angelic joy still singing through his veins, Crowley thought that the party hadn’t turned out too bad after all.

* * *

 

**3.**

Days later, Crowley accidentally got Aziraphale hooked on Pokémon Go.

For a terrible fifteen minutes he worried that this would someone taint his friend—hadn’t Crowley himself helped design mobile games as the ultimate time wasting temptation?—until he remembered that there was no mortal as obsessed with food as Aziraphale. He made frankly pornographic heart eyes at books. He’d worn Crowley’s face for an entire day, for Satan’s sake, so if any of his wings were turning black it wouldn’t be over an absurd little game.

Right?

“Look, Crowley, look! I’ve caught a precious sheep.”

Yeah no. They were fine.

Crowley obediently went cross-eyed to get a look at the screen suddenly shoved under his nose. “That’s Wooloo.”

“ _I love him_.”

“You’re hereditarily required to love all living creatures. Wooloo is a bunch of pixels.”

“Hush,” and the hand playfully nudging his arm burned hotter than any hellfire.

It hadn’t been his fault. None of it. How could Crowley have known he’d get addicted to these deliberately addicting apps? Or that Aziraphale would curiously glance over his shoulder while catching a Plusle and gasp with all the wonder of a child? Or a fool. Centuries Crowley had been trying to keep his angel updated with the latest tech and all it took, apparently, was a few adorable fantasy animals to win him over. Didn’t know why he was even surprised at this point.

Aziraphale leaned back on the park bench, scrolling endlessly through all the catches he’d made since last Thursday. He had miracled his pack to have infinite space because he couldn’t bear to transfer any of them. Each of his 72 Rattatas had their own name. Last night Aziraphale had asked in a far too serious tone if Crowley thought God might consider making real versions of Pokémon someday. Crowley was half expecting to walk in on another call upstairs and honestly, if this was what finally brought the wrath of the Almighty down on their heads? There were worse ways to go.

Aziraphale had used his own name for his avatar despite Crowley’s protests. He threw every ball with single-minded determination (and terrible aim). He had one friend. Crowley made sure to send him a gift every morning.

“What in the world…?” Aziraphale’s nose crinkled as he stared reproachfully down at his phone. “Oh really. What a silly warning. How can I be going too fast when I’m not even _moving_?”

It bubbled up from deep inside him and Crowley let it grow, tipping his head back against the wood and letting out an unexpected howl of laughter. Aziraphale startled, then grew concerned as Crowley continued to grip at his sides, now doubled over and wheezing. The laughter ripped through him, hurting in so many wonderful ways.

“Crowley? Crowley! Come now, do you intend to let me in on the joke?”

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He could only shake his head. Angels had never been any good with irony.

Standing still indeed.

* * *

 

**4.**

He wasn’t being subtle. Crowley knew that. Still, they both let time pass without comment until it was one, two, three weeks and a day since their not Armageddon and Crowley had spent nearly every minute of that in Aziraphale’s company.

It was easy for them, really. Not having to eat or sleep, only human conventions interrupting their long conversations. The Ritz closed for the night. The park grew too dark. Someone actually wanted to buy one of Aziraphale’s books, hell forbid. They spent more time together in that month than they had in centuries combined and if Crowley was shocked by anything other than the lack of consequences for this, it was how very _not_ sick of the angel’s company he was.

He thought they might go on like that indefinitely, one eternal conversation only interrupted by stops for more wine, until the morning they exited the shop and Aziraphale linked his arm through Crowley’s, steering them left instead of right.

“Oh no. C’mon. You’ve never even liked the place,” Crowley said, as nonchalantly as he could. Fat lot of good it did him. Aziraphale merely gave his hand a pat and continued on towards Crowley’s apartment.

He knew the way, of course, and Crowley had been truthful about Aziraphale’s iffy feelings in the past. Too sterile for him. Cold. Impersonal. Not that Aziraphale had ever said as much aloud. It was just etched into his face on the rare occasions he stopped by. Say what you wanted about angels, but they were absolutely terrible liars.

Crowley blinked. The world was dark behind his glasses but had lit up, briefly, in a moment of realization. Because Aziraphale _wasn’t_ a bad liar, was he? No one lacking a knack for that would have been able to fool the dark council; look Beelzebub directly in his fly infested eyes and pretend to be a demon himself. Perhaps then… Aziraphale was just bad at lying to _him_.

Crowley’s eyes slid to the side. Aziraphale felt their weight and bristled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh pish posh there’s something. Out with it then.”

“Nothing, nothing. Just…” Crowley leaned closer and drew in a massive breath, nose very nearly touching Aziraphale’s neck. From here he could easily see the flush that developed as a result. “Another new cologne. I don’t like it,” and Crowley wrinkled his nose.

There was silence except for the background bustle of London and their synchronized footfalls. One beat, three, seven, and then Aziraphale tossed his head like a put-upon horse.

“Liar,” was all he said. Crowley smiled.

That smile carried him for the next four blocks and since Aziraphale didn’t hesitate over his threshold neither did Crowley. It was different inside though. At least Crowley thought it should have been. All he could do was hang back and watch as Aziraphale gave little tuts at the mess he’d left behind, beginning to clean it with his hands instead of magic.

Seeing him bend, Crowley moved to help.

His safe was closed back up, clothes put away, papers straightened and lovingly re-attached to their book (Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of doing anything else.) It was only when they reached the study that Aziraphale gasped, staring in horror at the pile of black smudge that had once been a demon.

_I had to do it_ , Crowley wanted to say. _I did it for you._

Then he was being manhandled back into the hall.

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale was saying, eyes hard as stone and voice like a whiplash. For the first time in a long time Crowley remembered that his best friend had once been a soldier; he knew how to use that flaming sword and his soft gut meant nothing. “ _I_ will be cleaning up the holy water and _you_ will not set foot in there until I’m done. If you even try then I’ll—I’ll—”

“Never speak to me again?” Crowley asked, something in his chest uncoiling. He expected Aziraphale to give another one of his impatient huffs. Perhaps even some more tutting. Instead his lips thinned and he raised a hand to Crowley’s cheek, cupping it like he was something fragile. Precious.

“You old idiot,” he said. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that someday _you_ may not be around to talk to _me_?”

Oh.

He went off, leaving Crowley standing in his hall and shaking from the burn on his cheek. There must be a burn. Surely he hadn’t just come out of that without a scar. Yet when Crowley looked in the mirror there was nothing but unblemished skin and a rather particular sheen to his eyes.

Aziraphale miracled away what was left of the holy water and then cleaned the spot with human methods for good measure. Crowley could hear him muttering as he scrubbed the floor and doorframe; it might have been a blessing. Not a real one. Just something from him. Maybe that amounted to the same thing. 

Crowley was watering his plants when it was all done, spray bottle held in a white-knuckle grip and his mouth shut tight for once. Aziraphale marched out and took the water from him, easy as you please. He went back into the other room and a minute later Crowley felt a bit of the divine creep up his back, making him shiver.

Aziraphale put the new batch of holy water in the safe and checked the lock twice. Crowley let him.

“Lunch?” he asked, proud of how steady his voice was.

“Yes please. All that scrubbing has worked up an appetite.”

“Everything works up an appetite for you, angel.”

“Come now, there’s no need to be rude.”

_Of course there is_ , Crowley thought. _How else am I supposed to offset all your bloody kindness?_

He said nothing though, just slipped his arm through Aziraphale’s and let him steer them back out through the door.

* * *

 

**5.**

One would think that an angel so obsessed with food would have learned how to cook it over 6,000 years.

One also would have thought that an angel capable of literal magic might have been a little better at faking it for a mortal audience.

Crowley had learned through painful experience that neither of these assumptions were true.

“You will poison them,” he said kindly, taking the recipe book out of Aziraphale’s hands.

“But—”

“You cannot make their wedding cake.”

“ _But_ —”

“They will die. They will die, angel, and then I’ll have to deal with your grief for the rest of eternity. I won’t have it.”

Aziraphale’s look could have stripped iron. Crowley bore it with raised palms and a bowed head.

The things he did for humanity.

* * *

 

**6.**

The bookshop had every amenity that a mortal could ever want, more because Aziraphale wanted to do right by his customers, as opposed to using such luxurious himself. In fact, the bookshop contained more bathrooms and bedrooms and general storage space than could realistically fit within its confines. The week _Doctor Who_ first aired Crowley had barged through the front doors with a handmade “It’s bigger on the inside!” sign that to this day still hung next to Aziraphale’s teakettle.

In short, the shop was a veritable labyrinth, stuffed to the brim with books, of course, but also plenty of other odds and ends. Crowley enjoyed wandering through the back while Azriphale was otherwise occupied, discovering things from their pasts as well as new, wonderful fuel for teasing his angel.

Today he struck gold.

Bulls in china shops had nothing on demons in book shops. Tremendous crashes heralded Crowley’s sudden arrival in the front room. He held up a towel triumphantly.

“ _You kept it_ ,” Crowley breathed.

“Well of course I kept it.”

“I can feel—” he shook the towel forcefully. “ _Feel_ the divinity pouring off of this thing. It fucking burns.”

“Drop it then, you fool!”

Crowley refused, clutching the towel to his chest and doing a little dance around the shop. He was chattering about taking a selfie together and sending it to someone named Michael.

Annie watched all this and admitted that she probably wouldn’t get to purchase her books today. Aziraphale seemed to go out of his way encouraging customers _not_ to buy his books (odd for a seller), but this was the first time he’d straight up abandoned her to chase his boyfriend around the shop.

Annie sighed. She placed her selections on the counter and gave them a farewell pat. The best thing she could say for this place was that it was never boring.

“I’m finally writing that Yelp review,” she muttered on her way out. Yet even as she said it another crash sounded behind her, followed by indignant yelling and screeching laughter. A smile tugged at her lips.

Yeah. Annie knew it would, somehow, still end up being a positive review.

* * *

 

**7.**

The wedding took place in one of Tadfield’s meadows on a day that, to no one’s surprise, had absolutely perfect weather. Birds were singing. Wind blew softly through the trees. Angels were sobbing.

One angel, anyway.

“Would you stop that already? You’re embarrassing me.”

Crowley didn’t look very embarrassed. Adoring might have been a more apt description, had anyone been granted the privilege of seeing his eyes. All the same, Aziraphale drew a handkerchief from his vest and made a valiant effort to pull himself together.

“It was a _beautiful_ ceremony,” he said, sniffling between each word.

“Careful, angel. Some might call that prideful. Considering you performed the ceremony and all.”

“Oh hush. You can just keep your comments to yourself today, demon.”

Crowley grinned at how wet that last word sounded. Sliding a little further down the folding chair he reached out an arm and snatched two flutes from a passing tray. Aziraphale had calmed a little after a few big gulps.

Together they watched the happy couple move across the grass, clearly more interested in each other than the dance they were attempting. Anathema wore a green dress slightly worn around the edges, somehow both old fashioned and timelessly classic. It seemed ancestry remained important in all things.

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “Do you ever think about it?”

“What? Dancing?” Odd question. Aziraphale knew demons didn’t have the same stuck-up rules against—

“No. Marriage.”

Crowley promptly choked on his champagne.

Aziraphale must have been expecting that because he calmly handed him his handkerchief. In fact, all of him was suddenly calm. More-so than had ever been Aziraphale’s tendency and _that_ more than anything else stopped the breath in Crowley’s throat.

Funny how he didn’t need to breathe and yet it seemed so very important that he _currently couldn’t breathe._

“I’m not very good with words.” Aziraphale said, ignorant of the death occurring beside him. “I perhaps should be considering how much I love them. But no, not good at them at all, and I’m not sure I’m much good at actions either. It’s left me in quite the pickle these last few weeks and now here I am, making an ever bigger mess of it all.” He drew in a deep breath. Crowley envied him for it. “I suppose what I’m attempting to say, badly, is that I’ve been having talks with our dear Anathema—poor girl was quite nervous, never showed it though, what a champ—and she’s shared so many hopes that she has for her and Newt’s life together. Little things. Inconsequential some might say. Just… things.” Aziraphale waved a hand. It was more of a jerk. “Laid out like that… well, it occurred to me that we already _have_ many of those… things.”

“Things?” Crowley croaked.

“Yes, yes _things_. Please don’t make me go on any longer. You know what I’m talking about.”

Miraculously, Crowley did. He’d learned to speak Aziraphale centuries ago.

Translation then was what gave Crowley the courage—no, the _permission_ to pluck the flute from Aziraphale’s hand, tossing both their drinks onto the grass. It earned him a reproachful look, but only a brief one. Because Crowley had closed the gap between them before Aziraphale could work up any steam.

Humans always described kissing like fireworks. Maybe it was different for supernatural beings, but all Crowley felt when he tried it was a peace the likes of which he thought he’d lost after the Fall.

“Ineffable,” he whispered.

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, looking as if he’d just woken from a dream. He was soft and warm and now so close that Crowley could really _feel_ him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” and Crowley kissed him again because he wanted to. Because he _could_. This time Aziraphale gave it more of a go before pulling back suddenly, his mouth working like the last time he’d tasted subpar crepes.

“Not entirely sure I like that,” he said, seemingly to himself. It took a moment for his eyes to blow wide and his hands to fly up to Crowley’s cheeks. “I mean—! That’s not to say, the _kissing_ , Crowley, I—”

“I know what you mean, angel. I always do.” If Crowley grinned any harder he would split himself right open and he still, _still_ hadn’t figured out how to start breathing again. “Lucky for you, we’ve got an eternity to figure out what you do like.”

“…ah. I suppose we do. Yes. Lucky me.”

Aziraphale somehow turned it into a compliment, two words that managed to sear Crowley’s mind and kickstart his heart. A cheer went up as, unnoticed, Newt and Anathema copied them. This time Aziraphale linked his fingers through Crowley’s and planted his kiss on the back of his hand.

“What a temptation you are,” he said, all mischief and angelic joy. Toasts filled the sky around them.

To the happy couple.

* * *

 

**8.**

What Aziraphale liked, apparently, was Crowley.

After the wedding hands became rather a thing between them, so much so that Crowley kept trying to tease him about it. Trying and failing. Because Aziraphale would thread their fingers whenever they walked about London, painted Crowley’s nails as they sat watching movies, pressed tender kisses to his palm like he _deserved_ them and how the hell was he supposed to make fun of any of that?

Aziraphale liked all of Crowley: his hair to play with, his feet in his lap, his smile to take (frankly really bad) pictures of, his eyes out from behind his glasses. Aziraphale liked it when Crowley held him for long hours, read books to him, groomed his wings and wove the occasional black feather in with the white. Every day he learned something new and every day Aziraphale would ask,

“What do _you_ like, Crowley?” Hands on his neck, cupping his cheeks. “You spoil me so. Let me return the favor.” Hands gripping tight and flat out refusing to let go.

Crowley didn’t know how to say that he’d always wanted this too. All of it. He’d never thought he could have it though.

And here was Aziraphale, just giving it all away.

So he said "You." That and nothing more. Luckily, Aziraphale spoke Crowley too.

* * *

 

**9.**

(In truth, there was one specific thing that Crowley rather liked. The night it dropped to freezing and the two of them lacked the energy to miracle a better heating system, Crowley reverted to his snake form, instinctively seeking out the strongest source of heat.

Wound around every inch of Aziraphale, head tucked beneath his chin… _this_ was worth asking for.)

* * *

 

**10.**

“I’d like a word with you please, Mr. Angel.”

Crowley and Aziraphale paused together, sharing a look that may have had just a spark of fear in it. When they turned Pepper Galadriel Moonchild was staring up at them.

“Uh,” Aziraphale said, eloquent as always. “My dear child, technically you’re not supposed to know that I’m—that we…”

Pepper’s eyebrow crept into her hair. “Know that you’re an angel?” Her eyes drifted to Crowley. “And he’s a demon? My best friend is the antichrist, I stabbed an embodiment of war, and the two of you left feathers clinging to my sweatshirt. What exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“Fair question,” Crowley muttered.

“Besides,” those eyes narrowed into slits. “Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t know?”

Aziraphale nearly said, _I’m an angel_ before wisely thinking better of it. Some of that must have shown on his face though because Pepper scoffed.

“ _Men_.”

“Actually, we have no fixed biology or gender. I—”

“Shhh. Shh, shh, shhhhh.” Crowley’s hand came up to firmly cover Aziraphale’s mouth.

Pepper just nodded. She had a slice of her birthday cake in one hand and the other wielded a rather menacing looking plastic fork.

“Right then. I’ve been thinking,”

(Crowley: “Always dangerous.”)

“and based on what I’ve seen I’m not impressed with either option.”

Aziraphale stared. “Option?”

“Heaven. Hell.” Pepper moved her fork in a stabbing motion to emphasize each. “Both seem rubbish to me and I’m not spending eternity under the thumb of those two assholes we met. So yeah. Options. What’s a third one and how do I get a ticket there?”

Faintly, Aziraphale had begun making noises like an overwrought teakettle. Crowley was snickering into the back of his hand. “My dear that’s not—you can’t—despite what some other religious texts might tell you there _is_ no third option.”

“Then make one.” She said it blandly. Like that was a thing they could just do. “You two are, what? Outsiders and shit? Break your chains already. Expand your horizon, blah blah blah.”

Crowley’s smile was made up entirely of sharp edges. “Tried that once, kiddo. Didn’t work out too well.”

Pepper, in turn, stared at the space between him and Aziraphale. Or rather, the lack of it. Her expression said, _Really?_

“Look, mom was right about me needing to do everything myself because I can’t trust anyone else to do it for me. Not proper anyway. But even I’ll admit that I’m at a disadvantage when it comes to something like this. So you guys have until I die to figure something out, got it?”

They could only nod dumbly.

“Great. Oh, this is for you.” Pepper stuck the fork in the cake and handed it off to Aziraphale. Then to both their ever-lasting shock she hauled Crowley down by his shoulders to plant a kiss on his cheek. “See ya.”

They watched her go, all confident walk and jutted out chin.

“So,” Crowley said. “Are we creating our own afterlife or making that kid immortal? We’ve got roughly eighty years to decide.”

“She called Gabriel a…a... Well. You heard her.” Aziraphale already had cake halfway down his throat. “We’ll have to keep our eye on that one. Adam too, of course. His entire little group, really. Those horrible events must have traumatized the poor dears.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. ‘Traumatized’ wasn’t the word he would have used to describe Pepper. “We have enough on our plate without babysitting, angel.”

“We already decided to be godfathers.”

Another wishy-washy noise.

“And they do say it takes a village.”

Aziraphale had inhaled the slice in record time. He offered the last bite to Crowley though and he took it directly from the fork, appreciating the buttercream as much as the hand that served it. The whole time Aziraphale watched him, something impossibly soft in his expression.

“Think about it. Crowley and Aziraphale’s Home for Wayward Mortals.”

“Absolutely not,” and Crowley licked his lips clean.

* * *

 

**11.**

“You know,” he said two days later, sprawled on their bench with all the confidence of a king on his throne. “Technically I’d say all of humanity are our children.”

Aziraphale blinked. Then blinked again. “Dear, I think you’re confusing us with the Almighty.”

“She was involved, sure.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But think about it. What if we _both_ got it right?”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“The Garden, obviously. I got the ball rolling with dear Adam and Eve. You gave them a flaming sword to keep things going. All of this,” Crowley spread his arms to encompass the park, the world. “Is because of us. Every little human baby is a result of our meddling and frankly I feel like we’re owed 6,000 years of child support.”

Aziraphale stared blankly at a passing duck until finally, slowly, his mouth began to twitch. It blossomed into a smile. “All of humanity, you say?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Well, we certainly have our work cut out for us then.”

“Kept ‘em alive this long,” Crowley drawled. He threw his arm up over the top of the bench and reached until he found Aziraphale’s collar, lightly stroking the strip of skin there.

It was worth it—it was always worth it—to see the shine that came into Aziraphale’s face when he thought he was still doing good. It wasn’t meant to be Crowley’s goal, but then he’d never been very good at being what others said he should.

Aziraphale leaned in against his shoulder, radiating conspiracy. “Perhaps this is just one more step,” he whispered. “All part of Her plan.”

“Please do not start that again.”

“All I’m saying is that She hasn’t come down from on high to smite us yet, so perhaps this was what She wanted all along—”

“If she wanted someone looking out for seven billion squabbling children she would have chosen someone else for the job. Someone better than us.”

“You don’t mean that,” Aziraphale said, shifting impatiently like a child himself, smile growing wider with every word. “You don’t mean that at all.”

Crowley was just about to counter with something marvelously witty (he was leaning towards sticking his tongue out, complete with a fork for flair) when an old man passing by seemed to trip over air. It was hardly the first time something like this had happened to them. Stick two celestial beings in the same place and at least a few mortals were bound to notice, even if they never really knew what they were looking at. The very young and the very old were particularly susceptible, being closer to the other side and all that, so it was quite normal to have elders and toddlers alike giving them a good stare before stripping over their own feet.  
  
Aziraphale’s arms had already shot out to steady the man.

“Easy there!” And then, a spark of mischief entering his eyes, “You must take care of yourself, my son.”

The man spluttered, seemingly torn between leaning into the kind hands or sensibly pulling away. Sensible won out as it always did and he stumbled back, cane planted firmly between him and this tactile stranger.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The man was hobbling away when they caught, “Bloody religious folk…”

Crowley stood quick as lightning. “ _Hey! Talk to your father like that again and you’re grounded, young man!_ ”

His voice carried across the grass, outmatched only by Aziraphale’s laughter.

* * *

 

**12.**

The details of this particular story aren’t important, only the frame and its foundation. Suffice to say Adam heard one kid bad mouthing another kid and decided that a third kid (him) needed to get involved. The result was a split lip, bruised knuckles, and strangely, a missing sock. Adam honestly couldn’t explain that last bit.

Now, fifteen minutes after it all went down, Adam sat before an irate Mr. Sullivan who was demanding to speak with his parents. That was the problem with living in such a small village. Everyone knew everyone and they were all right down the road. Theoretically speaking there was no reason why Mr. and Mrs. Young couldn’t appear within ten minutes time to hear all about how Adam was a naughty little thing deserving of punishment, but it just so happened that his mom was sick and his dad was out of town visiting mates. For once, Adam didn’t even need to make those things up.

“But,” he said, tonguing his split lip. “You could call up my godfathers.”

Mr. Sullivan had never wanted to go into teaching and was thus the exact sort of person who should have never been given the job. He did not care, did not respect, and ultimately did not want to be interacting with children. Normally this was mainly to the detriment of the students themselves, but in this case poor Mr. Sullivan was the one at a disadvantage. Had he taken the time to ponder why a kid in trouble appeared so gleeful at the prospect of summoning another authority figure he might not have been so quick to agree.

As it was, Mr. Sullivan accepted the number Adam had memorized and plugged it into the old landline he kept on his desk. Adam watched each number go in, legs swinging.

He had, of course, hoped for Crowley. What young boy didn’t want a smartly dressed rebel sauntering into his classroom and giving the mean teacher what for? So his spirits sank when instead Aziraphale’s voice sounded down the line, promising to be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. At least he was kinder than mom would have been if she’d been up and about, though Adam was still disappointed.

He shouldn’t have been.

Aziraphale arrived at Tadfield Preparatory from central London with speed only an angel (or perhaps a demon) was capable of. He wore the same suit and jacket combo Adam always saw him in and gave Mr. Sullivan a hearty handshake, complimenting him on his tie. Based purely on aesthetics, one might think that Aziraphale and Mr. Sullivan were destined to be friends.

Except that two minutes later Aziraphale was yelling at him.

“You should be _ashamed_ of yourself!” he hissed—it was three minutes in now and yelling had been replaced with a disbelieving whisper. His voice had grown softer with every word, each one sending Mr. Sullivan a little farther back into his chair. “I assure you, sir, I am the last person to condone violence, but I also do not try to punish young men who have the courage to stand up for the downtrodden. What exactly are you trying to teach my godson here?”

“I told Mr. Sullivan that Andy was bullying Margaret weeks ago,” Adam felt compelled to mention. “He didn’t do anything about it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “And what was it dear Andy called Margaret today?”

Adam repeated the word. Aziraphale’s eyes went from slits to completely closed and had he been anyone else Adam would have thought he was praying for patience.

Everyone ending up learning a little something that day:

  1. Adam learned that pudgy angels in outdated clothes were _wonderfully_ terrifying and he should absolutely bring Aziraphale to his next parent’s day.
  2. Mr. Sullivan learned—or perhaps fully admitted to himself—that teaching really wasn’t for him if it meant that he had to deal with this sort of nonsense on the daily. Strangely enough, a few days later he received a surprise inheritance, a small but appreciated sum that allowed him to finally pursue his interest in farming. Adam’s class was paired with a lovely substitute for the rest of the semester.
  3. Mr. and Mrs. Rothenberg, the loving parents of Andy, learned via anonymous letter exactly what their son had been getting up to on the playground. That was the first shock. The second was the obscenely large cheque enclosed for the boy to start therapy.
  4. Margaret learned that miracles really could happen when Adam Young, the most popular kid in school, not only got in a tussle for her but said the next day that she was “Them” now. Margaret wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but four new friends couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.
  5. And Aziraphale learned that humans were still trying to drive nails through those who advocated kindness. The fact that the nails were now metaphorical hardly made a difference. 



“I hope you think on your choices today, sir.” Aziraphale said, precisely seven minutes after he’d begun. By now his volume was back to normal, but the edges of his bowtie were still lifting with the suggestion of power. He whirled and grabbed hold of Adam’s hand, leading him firmly out of the office…

…only to march back in and snatch one of the lollipops from Mr. Sullivan’s desk.

“And I’m taking this!”

Aziraphale ended up feeling rather bad for not grabbing Adam a lollipop too, which resulted in him treating them both to sundaes for lunch.

Sometimes, being a former antichrist had its perks.

(6. Crowley learned that there was competition for the position of Adam’s favorite godfather and Aziraphale—the smug bastard—simply wouldn’t shut up about it.)

* * *

 

**13.**

What many tended to forget was that Adam was not their only godson. Granted, Crowley and Aziraphale had forgotten too during those hectic days, so they really weren’t inclined to blame anyone else for the misstep. The only thing that mattered now was that for a supernatural being the space between London and Tadfield was really no different than between London and Washington D.C.

Warlock Dowling had received an obscene number of presents for his eleventh birthday. This was nothing new. Warlock had, in fact, been receiving vast quantities of material goods since he’d been identified as a bundle of cells in his mother’s uterus. Or rather, _someone_ had been receiving those first gifts. Supernatural swaps and all that. Quite complicated, you understand. The point was that Warlock had a far more simplified view of events and over the years, as he’d learned the useful art of communication, he found that he could influence reality, tailoring those objects into whatever he pleased. Electronics, bikes, games, clothes, water pistols—no matter what Warlock mentioned it would find its way into a birthday box or wind up tucked beneath the Christmas tree. It reached the point where Warlock didn’t even want the stuff. He just wanted to see if someone would buy it for him.

Following this came the realization that just because someone bought you a thing didn’t mean they were going to play with it. With you. And buying the things you mentioned meant that no one was really putting forth any effort, were they? No one chose a gift for _him_. They just pulled out another credit card and parroted his words. It was all so stupid.

Had anyone asked—and the fact that there was no one to ask was precisely the point—Warlock wouldn’t have been able to put any of this into words. He understood it though and instead of speaking he expressed himself by taking one of the plants inside the front hall and dumping it over the carpet for the maid to clean up. Both actions amounted to much the same thing.

Dirt on his trousers, grinding a leaf between his fingers, Warlock went upstairs and found a present on his bed.

Boring.

It had been days since his birthday, but that didn’t mean anything. Things arrived a full month before and after the date, mostly stuff from Dad’s friends. They sent him things hoping he’d sing their praises. Warlock wasn’t stupid, even if everything else was.

He looked again. This gift though… it was different. Normally they all had shiny, expensive paper. Massive bows and cards done up in stunning fonts. This present looked like a five-year-old had wrapped it.

Other things began to nag at Warlock as he sat down beside it. Like how there was no little sharpie mark on top to show that it had gone through security. Presents were normally stacked on the kitchen counter, not his bed, and they came in threes, fours, massive piles for him to work through in front of an audience. Teeny-tiny details flew together into something potentially cool and Warlock’s hands were suddenly ripping the red and white paper away.

Inside was a plant.

Warlock stared—at the little pot and then at the leaf still rolled between his fingers. He dropped it, swallowing.

There was nothing special about the plant. It was just small and green and leafy. Didn’t even have any flowers. In fact, when Warlock looked closer he saw that one of the leaves had a big, brown spot on it; a hole eaten all the way through.

“What the hell?” he asked the empty room. “Who gives someone a defective plant?”

Under the pot was a book titled _Baby’s First Garden!_ and between the pages was a note.

_Warlock,_

_Happy Birthday, dear boy! Can’t quite believe it, can you? We certainly can’t. Eleven is a remarkable accomplishment and though you probably weren’t aware until just this moment, we are both so terribly proud of you. Well done, good show, keep it up!_

_This little creature enclosed, much like you, is still growing. Perhaps you can watch over him for a bit? Help each other out and such. The book will answer any questions you may have, but never limit your research to just one text. I have many titles at my disposal (on a variety of subjects) and am happy to send you any that you may desire. You’ll find my address enclosed._

_There’s so much more to say, but I fear my partner is quite literally pulling me out the door. A very happy birthday to you again—with many more to come!_

_Fondest love,_

_Your Guardian Angel and Guardian Demon_

_P.S. I have been reliably informed by another young man your age that the plant’s name is Plant._

 

“What. The actual. Hell.”

Still… Warlock couldn’t deny that it was all interesting. Lame as fuck and super strange, but interesting. No one had given him a plant before. Or written a note like that. Guardian _demon_?

“Probably some nut,” Warlock said to Plant. “You definitely weren’t screened. Maybe you’re a bomb.”

Pretty sad looking bomb though.

What Warlock should have done was alert security, give them the address, and beg Dad to let him watch the SWAT team move in.

What he did instead was set Plant by the window and tear a few pages out of his school notebook. Warlock didn’t let himself think about whether what he was doing was right or not. Besides, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Four letters later, Warlock started asking his parents for a greenhouse instead of toys. Let’s see them fit that under the Christmas tree.

* * *

**14.**

Aziraphale felt his arrival and was sorely tempted to make a break for the cabinet beneath his Wilde collection. Just start chucking whatever alcohol was currently at the front and call it a day. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he had nothing that would go with his lunch.

Coincidentally, it was sushi.

“Hello Gabriel,” He said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. Aziraphale hoped the action would hide how badly his hands were shaking.

He didn’t get a greeting back, just the horrible pressure of Gabriel pacing around his shop, fingers dancing from one title to the next. When he finally spoke his voice was infused with enough false cheer to make Aziraphale wince.

“I met a human on my way in. His name was also Gabriel.” The smile dropped. “I’ve always found that particularly insulting. These creatures taking our name for their short, petty existences. And then shortening them. To ‘ _Gabe_.’”

Aziraphale thought about pointing out that humans had been made in God’s image and that their own existence was an extension of God herself; it made perfect sense that they would be drawn to their names, like pieces fitting back into a puzzle. It was also on the tip of his tongue to mention that they—particularly the archangels—had originally situated themselves into all sorts of human affairs, ensuring that their names continued to live on in even modern cultures. Names were a _gift_ bestowed from parent to child. Few, if any, had ever named their darlings Aziraphale.

(Really, it was only one syllable more.)

What Aziraphale said instead was, “Yes, Gabe Mockensen. He pops in every once in a while, checking for mysteries. Bit more contemporary than what I normally carry, but I try to indulge him. I think you’d rather like him. If you ever stayed to chat.”

The glare Gabriel leveled at him was withering. “Really.”

“Really.”

“Is that your great and holy purpose now? Finding books for these humans? Was taking up with a demon not enough?”

The disgust on Gabriel’s face was plain, caustic looks cast around at everything Aziraphale loved, and it occurred to him that he’d been rather slow about things. Adoration of food, books, cinema, fat stuffed animals, humans and even Crowley—it was an education centuries in the making, still going strong. Acceptance had taken Aziraphale 6,000 years. It might take someone like Gabriel 12,000.

And Aziraphale had had a lot of help along the way.

So he stood, taking his plate with him, and bit down on the smile that wanted to bloom when Gabriel took an instinctive step back. He _had_ tried to kill him after all and Aziraphale was only—

Well. “Only human” might have been putting a bit too fine a point on it.

“You like clothes,” he said, soft as he could manage. “Human clothes, I mean. You told me as much months ago. Beautifully tailored suits, silk ties… surely we can both agree that humans have done wonderfully in this regard? You _like_ them, Gabriel. Is it so impossible to believe that you might like this too?” Aziraphale extended the sushi.

“Temptation,” Gabriel spit and said a few more things that really weren’t appropriate for his humble shop. In fact, he made such a production of his refusal that Aziraphale found he couldn’t read it as anything else. Just another performance.

After he’d gone it occurred to him that Gabriel had stated no purpose for this visit. The expected threats and promises of punishment never came.

Perhaps he’d just wanted to pop by.

Aziraphale chose another piece of sushi, staring at the door. 12,000 years.

Yes, he thought he could wait that long. He and Crowley both could.

* * *

 

**15.**

Ten minutes via bike from Sara Whitaker’s house was The Cabin. That was where the witches lived.

“I thought you said they were both men?”

“Men can be witches, Jane.”

“Cannot.”

The witches weren’t home very often, letting the place grow wild with vines, strawberries and bees. Through the window you could see books with strange titles; lush plants that no one ever needed to water.

“Witches are supposed to have cauldrons and brooms and stuff.”

“There’s a broom! I saw it once.”

“Yeah right. Like you saw the girl with a toad on her head. Or the man with purple eyes.”

“Call me a liar again and I’m shoving you!”

“I didn’t call you nothing!”

The witches spent so much time away because they were collecting firstborns. Whenever they came back there were children with them, each claiming to be a godchild. They all had the same funny smile when they said it though. Sara was never fooled.

“I dare you to go ring the doorbell.”

“Why would I do that, stupid, there’s no one home.”

“Then there’s no reason you won’t do it. Right?”

Funny things got left behind whenever they traveled. Like the cracked pair of sunglasses sticking out of the flowerbed. Or the feathers Sara sometimes found along the path, bigger than any bird she’d ever seen.

“Double dog dare you with a cherry on top.”

One of the godsons had a dog. Sara saw its eyes flash red once.

They ended up going together, tip-toeing up the steps and clinging to one another’s arms. Because it didn’t matter if it was empty right now and the sun shone bright overhead. This was a _witch’s_ house.

Expect a touch of magic then. Despite everything claiming otherwise, when Sara knocked the door swung open and the cabin, impossibly, was occupied.

A gangly witch dressed all in black smiled down on them. He titled those glasses just enough to reveal yellow, slit eyes. Behind him stood another witch almost too bright to look at, plump like he indulged in children at every meal. All that Sara saw screamed that these were the creatures of storybooks, ready to gobble her up.

“Well, well, well,” said the one in black. “Looks like we’ve got some strays. I suppose you’ll want to stay for dinner then? Bloody freeloaders.”

The one in white immediately set on him for language—you rude old serpent!—and that should have been enough to send Jane and Sara running.

Instead they stepped inside.

Because despite everything else, this place felt loved.

 

 

~Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!


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